


And it burns like a gin and I like it

by b0necharmed



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood Drinking, Blood and Injury, Edelich AU, M/M, Mild ideation, Minor Edelgard von Hresvelg/Hubert von Vestra, Throat Injury, Vampirism, cunnilingus reference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 12:44:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21410392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/b0necharmed/pseuds/b0necharmed
Summary: Ferdinand drinks too much of Edelgard and Hubert has to clean up. Which he does, with relish, of course. Part of the Edelich AU by charbroiled.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 1
Kudos: 43
Collections: Sanguine Throne (Edelich) AU Multiverse





	And it burns like a gin and I like it

**Author's Note:**

> charbroiled has been in my DMs for weeks telling me all about this hyper-gothic, bloodslicked alternate ending to Crimson Flower. Like the Hurdinand gremlin that I am, I was like, sooooo, what is sunbeam boy Ferdinand von Aegir doing in this fallen hellscape? Guess here's the answer: partaking of Edelgard's cursed blood until he is barely human, and having Hubert suck it out of him so he doesn't turn demonic. It is charbroiled's sandbox and I am taking my grubby-fisted liberties with it. Puss puss.

The boy she sends to summon him is nameless and frail, a quiver in his white fingers and in his ghost-strung voice. Hubert cannot remember how this one came to be; the child is nothing but a single thread in the constantly-refreshing tapestry around his emperor. He whisper-talks. “It’s Lord Ferdinand. He’s in a bad way. Her Majesty needs you to…”

Hubert cuts him off. “I understand.” 

It’s been nearly two weeks since the last incident. A record. He finds Ferdinand in the dim grey of the throne room, slumped against Edelgard’s calves, ripe with a bloody grin and a heat-dazed look. Sweat-damp and trembling. One hand toys with the blood in the canals, and as Hubert comes toward the throne Ferdinand, half-lidded eyes fixed upon the approaching figure, slips a pair of fingers into his mouth in puckish challenge. His skin is fever-bright, the flesh within consumed by the raw magic occupying his veins. Ah, how his eyes have sunken and his cheeks hollowed in the time since they vanquished the dragon! Hubert studies the mess puddled at his feet and feels a frown coming on.

Edelgard mistakes his silence for reproach and says, almost sullenly: “His bloodthirst is stronger than the geas.” She nudges Ferdinand with her foot and he—the shining-haired boy, most noble of nobles—giggles and swats her away.

Hubert bows and says nothing. Let her think he disapproves of all this. Let her think he wants her to stop Ferdinand from taking her in until he is no longer himself. Silently he scoops the half-feral, half-sensate prime minister into his arms. Ferdinand’s body shakes in a rolling shudder, like the doors of a besieged fortress. “Hubert,” he whispers, tangling fingers in his hair, pulling hard enough to tear roots, to break strands. “If it were not you…” His lips are curled in challenge, showing off blood-wet teeth. Anyone else who tried to touch him in this state would have their head ripped off. Hubert has seen it happen. The cleanup took effort; a number of couches had to be replaced.

Edelgard watches him bear Ferdinand’s weight effortlessly, a feat still new to him, and her expression darkens just enough for him to notice. She knows what he has done—what he is doing—but she will not say anything. Nor will he. Ferdinand purrs against his chest, his chin tucked against Hubert’s clavicle, toying with the lock of hair he has pulled from Hubert’s scalp. 

“Be gentle with him,” she says. “And be careful.”

There was a time she used to admonish him. Warn him against draining the magic out of Ferdinand’s veins. Just watch him until the fever subsides, she would say. Make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone. But the river that is her blood has long been crossed, and they both know it, but neither of them wants to start that fight. Hubert walks the length of the chamber with his own limbs tight with anticipation. The warmth and scent haloed around Ferdinand rouses the barely-tameable want in him. That smell: top notes bright and coppery, set over a loamy base of sweat and musk.

They have set aside a room for Ferdinand’s episodes, halfway down the corridor across from the Imperial chamber. The door seals behind Hubert, a line of purple sigils none but he can break. The windows are curtained with heavy velvet, and the furniture has been cleared but for the bed in the middle, an age-bitten thing salvaged from elsewhere, thin mattress stippled with blood from previous excursions.

It is this canvas upon which Hubert places Ferdinand. The man clings to him, resisting gravity, refusing to be parted from his warmth. A growl which passes through Hubert’s sternum and into the linings of his ribcage. Hubert tilts up that stubborn chin and Ferdinand’s jaw swings open, his eyes ringed red and glittery with challenge. His tongue is slick with Edelgard still, and Hubert can no longer deny himself the treat, diving forward into that waiting chasm, that hot mouth coated with blood pure from Her Majesty’s veins. A treat saved especially for him, and he knows he shouldn’t, she has explicitly forbidden him to, and yet he cannot stop himself. Under him Ferdinand writhes as he licks her off his teeth and sucks her power from his tongue. He smells her mixed in with Ferdinand’s spit, and it’s like he’s back on his knees at her throne, her thighs hot against his cheeks as he laps at her. He moans, he can’t help it, and Ferdinand moans back. He has one hand clawed into Hubert’s neck, nails digging for spine, and the other has forced its way past Hubert’s waistband. His palms, his fingers are rough against Hubert’s flesh, angry and demanding, but the gift of Edelgard’s blood is hitting him hard now, and in this state of being nothing can hurt him. She is in his veins, and when his heart beats it is her heart that is in his chest. 

He shoves Ferdinand onto the bed, breaking them apart. Ferdinand shoves back. They are two beasts now, hackles raised and hungry, sizing up their opponent from each corner of the bed. They could kill each other. Or they could fuck. 

Ferdinand moves first. Tips him over, fastens him to the bed with a knee under his ribs and one hand around each wrist. Hubert’s mouth is still wet with his and he grins. Of course they were going to fuck; there was never any doubt. Ferdinand’s hair spills over Hubert in a tangled curtain, and in that irregular shadow Hubert sees the ring of green glowing around Ferdinand’s pupils. He will die if he remains like this much longer. Already a line of blood from his nose slides towards his lips as the capillaries within break from the pressure. Hubert turns his head and sinks his teeth into Ferdinand’s wrist, hard enough to grind tendon, not hard enough to break skin. Ferdinand laughs, snaps his wrist free, and clamps his hand around Hubert’s throat. Fingers gouging into cartilage. The pain energizes him. Energizes them both. Hubert is shucking cloth from fevered skin, and Ferdinand is forcing his way into him, both of them grunting, gasping, overdriven pulses rattling into sync. Ferdinand’s body is a weapon, a machine, a blade hacking messily at Hubert’s joints, and still Hubert arches his back into him, asking for more. He is invincible.

The razor lies on the table next to the bed. As Ferdinand nears climax he leans forward, pressing their chests together, tilting his head upwards, offering the white expanse of his neck to Hubert. As Ferdinand shivers, his mouth open and his eyes rolling back, Hubert lifts the razor and opens a line in his throat. A blooming red curtain spills free. Hubert darts up, mouth swift and immediate, catching the wellspring of salt and metal. He swallows as fast as the blood comes, shuddering and expanding as Ferdinand empties into him, gurgling, hands going stiff, then limp. Ferdinand’s pulse resonates in his throat and his belly, bearer of Edelgard’s will and power, and the sensation spreads through Hubert like ink dropped in water. He counts the split-seconds between Ferdinand’s heartbeats as the man stills against him. Too soon and the fever won’t break. Too late and Ferdinand will die. 

Ferdinand whines. A strange ache passes through Hubert, and with his tongue he seals the gash, knitting torn meat whole. Not even a scar remains across the skin. Ferdinand’s head falls against his chest, eyes loosely shut, breath coming in tiny puffs against his collarbone. Hubert is aglow, every sense sharp as glass. He feels like he could float through the vaulted ceiling and into the sun-bleached sky.

Sweat beads on Ferdinand’s lip, collects in the hollow of his back. The worst is over for him. For now. Eventually the creature resting against Hubert’s chest feels human to him once more, something approximating the bright and stupid boy that had so irritated him when they first met. Ferdinand weeps softly and wordlessly, and Hubert strokes his sweat-clumped hair, feeling broadly generous in the post-consumption glow. They lie in the gloom while time stalls and goes gelatinous around them. In Hubert’s fingers the shell of Ferdinand’s ear is a minor miracle, delicately sculpted and hot with blood still.

“Why did you stop?”

Hubert tilts his head to look. Ferdinand has returned to awareness, his brows knitted, his lips clamped in an unhappy line. Hubert huffs. “Don’t be absurd. I could not let you die. Who else would serve Her Majesty’s needs when I am away?”

“You would easily find a replacement for me, I am sure.”

Hubert tightens his fingers around Ferdinand’s shoulder. “No,” he says. “I would not.”

Ferdinand remains silent. Hubert feels the flicker of his eyelashes against skin exposed by a long tear in his shirt. “What are you thinking, now?”

“Hubert…” A soft intake of breath. “If a day comes to pass where I am no longer myself… will you promise me that you will do the right thing?”

“It will not come to that.”

“You do not know that for sure.” Ferdinand tilts his head up. “Promise me this, Hubert. Kill me if I become monstrous. If I am beyond redemption.”

“It will not come to that,” Hubert repeats, his grip tightening further. “I will stop you before it happens.”

Ferdinand sighs and buries his face in Hubert’s chest. Too spent to argue further. “For the Empire’s sake, I hope you are right…”

Hubert licks his lips. The taste of Edelgard’s blood lingers there still, and the power that she holds ripples through him like a stone sinking in a lake. Eventually, one day, he will not be able to contain it, and the weak walls of his flesh will rupture into something new. Something sublime and deadly. But he can stop himself, of course he can, before he reaches that point. And he'll stop Ferdinand too. He'll catch him before he falls. Won't he?

For her sake, he thinks—for all our sakes—I hope I am right.


End file.
